


WIP Amnesty

by plingo_kat



Series: WIP Amnesty [1]
Category: DCU, Dominion (TV), Hannibal (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), Numb3rs, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:51:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the languishing fics on my hard drive that will never see completion. Feel free to ask me about any of these, though of course there's no guarantee I'll ever finish them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. SKYFALL - Silva = Bond's dark mirror

He blinks and feels the blood drip down one cheek, irritating and ticklish. There’s a faint roar in his ears – his own blood pumping, rich and vital and fast, lighting up his nerves.

Killing is a thrill. MI6 carefully cultivates certain sociopathic tendencies in their field agents; _she_ encourages him with sarcasm and censure, and looking the other way on his methods when it comes to results.

He resists the urges to lick his lips. Too unsanitary, even for the sharp copper tang of life on his tongue.

 

He grows colder. The years take their toll, whittling away as the vitality of his younger years, wearing down the cartilage in his knees and increasing the effort he needs to expend to stay in shape. Lines on his face appear, harsh around his eyes and mouth.

She grows older too, although it’s more difficult to tell. Office life doesn’t wear on the body the way getting shot at does, and her wrinkles develop slower, softer than his own. Her tongue only gets sharper.

He loves her.

 

They meet, obliquely, a number of times over the years: Santiago, Budapest, North Korea. Neither of them realizes who the other is. They see blank eyes and smiling mouths, gun-callused hands and expensive watches, one of a hundred thousand killers for hire.

And no agent likes to spend too long staring at their reflection, lest they spy their own fatal flaw.

 

“Bitch,” he calls her with affection, sprawled over a garish floral-patterned sofa.


	2. SKYFALL - serial killer ot3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maibeitsmayberlline asked you:  
> girl write me some 3 some with psychopaths. Or lol trying on each other clothes 00Q: your cardigan is an eyesore

i.

_”What,_ ” James snaps into his phone. This is the fifth call Silva has made in the past ten minutes. “You think you’d have gotten that I didn’t want to answer after the third time I hung up on you.”

“James, I’m hurt.” Silva is much too chipper to have been lying low like they agreed – or rather, as James had strongly suggested and Silva hadn’t objected to, which was basically agreement anyway.

“The fuck have you done,” James says, abandoning his post. Hours, wasted because Silva can’t stay in a lavish hotel room and order room service and watch porn like a normal human being. “If you’ve killed somebody—“

“Not at all, not at all.” Silva hums something, a snatch of music that’s been popular on the radio lately. “I brought you a present for our anniversary.”

“Anniversary?” There, a cab. He flags it down. “What bloody anniversary?”

“Our first hunt together, _meu amor_. You do remember? All that blood…”

“Yes, and then you decided we had to fuck in it, and it took two hours to all wash off.”

“You have no romance in your soul,” Silva sighs. “But come home quickly, darling, or our little – hmm, shall we call him Q, for question mark? – will spoil.”

“Don’t get blood on the carpets,” James says, hitting the ‘end call’ button. Then, to the cabbie: “Step on it, please.”

 

Opening the door to a boy tied to chair is actually a pleasant surprise. James was expecting copious bleeding and possibly even some mild dismemberment; instead Silva’s chosen victim is fully intact, if restrained. No gag, either.

“You shouldn’t have,” he deadpans. The door slams shut behind him as he strips off his gloves and unwinds the scarf around his neck. London gets chilly at night, even in late summer.

“James!” Silva stands and kisses him quickly before gesturing him forward with a sweep of his arm. “I got your favorite: tall, dark, slim. Hm?” His grin is sly, conniving.

James takes a closer look at the boy – no, man, although still quite young. Life hasn’t carved her marks onto him yet, and James feels a pang of sympathy that this Q’s first brush with harsh reality is with them. Neither of them are gentle.

Q really _is_ James’ type, though, with wide, frightened brown eyes and a set but trembling mouth. He never could resist the vulnerable ones.

“You couldn’t have just stayed in the room,” he sighs. There are remnants of dinner sitting on a table, so James helps himself.

“You want some water?”

Silence.

Silva prowls – there’s no other word for the show he’s putting on – around so he can brace his hands on either side of their captive’s shoulders. Q’s eyes dart back and forth between the two men, trying to keep both in sight at once. He flinches as Silva’s fingers brush his cardigan.

James fills a cup about halfway and brings it over. “What’s your real name?”

He holds up the cup, cocks an eyebrow.

Q’s lips thin, pupils contracted with fear. Sweat beads his temples. “Classified.” His voice is clipped, but remarkably steady.

“Class—Silva, did you kidnap a government official?” A horrifying thought occurs to him. “You named him Q. You called – is he _Q?_ Did you capture the _head of bloody Q-branch?”_

Q’s eyes widen, which is as good as a confession.

“You did, you--! And he doesn’t even know who we are?” James rounds on the boy. “How new are you, then?”

Q glares, which affects James about as much as a wet kitten does; that is, he feels a disturbingly strong urge to run his fingers through the mess hair on top of that head.

“How new is he?” He snaps at Silva, because like hell the man didn’t know _exactly_ who he was abducting. “And will we have to blow up this hotel? I _like_ this hotel, Tiago.”

“You used my name!” Silva smiles at him, guilelessly bright. “And he’s quite new, this Q. Still has the shiny, hmm, foil around him. All clean. Untouched?” He leans down and presses them cheek to cheek, so two pairs of brown eyes are staring up at James, fear and lust and disgust and glee.

James pinches the bridge of his nose. After the first burst of adrenaline, he has to admit that the idea does have its appeal. They can have their way with this beautiful, no doubt brilliant boy, and if he survives they can break him, leash that sharp intelligence for themselves…

“I see you have come to a conclusion similar to mine.” Tiago rises, trailing his fingers over Q’s cheekbone. Then he moves so can stand next to James, drape himself all over James’ back. “Think of how beautiful he will look under you.” A hand trails down James’ ribs, the crease of his hip. “Think of all he can do for us.”

James inhales as Tiago cups him, familiar and proprietary, a comfort and a challenge both.

“I think you’re trying to get me to _stop_ thinking,” James says, but leans into Tiago regardless. The boy – Q – looks away. His ears are pink.

“Look at him,” Tiago murmurs, nipping at James’ ear. “Sweet little thing.”

“Mm,” James agrees. His reservations about Q are rapidly slipping away. He twists so he can grip Tiago’s shoulders, can unbutton Tiago’s flamboyantly patterned shirt.

“Hoo!” Tiago grins. “Going to give the boy a show, hm?”

“Like I care,” James growls. “All of this was your idea, not mine.”

“Not romantic at all, this one,” Tiago tells Q. He shivers as James pinches a nipple, then runs his fingers over the network of scar tissue webbed over nearly the entirety of the left side of his torso.

“You seem to have things well in hand,” Q says, all posh accent and soft voice. “Can I vote to keep myself out of this?”

 _Bad idea_ , James thinks, biting a mark onto Tiago’s neck. It would have just been better to keep silent and not draw attention to himself. Oh, the arrogant impetuousness of the young.

“James?” Tiago grasps a fistful of short hair; James makes a note to cut it soon.

“Whatever,” James says, sucking on Tiago’s collarbone. He doesn’t much care for the delicate work, and that’s what they’ll have to do for Q. He doesn’t have the patience for it.

“I insist,” Tiago says, pulling him away. “I got him for you, after all.”

James sighs, rolling his eyes. “Work, work,” he says.

“I really would appreciate it if you’d let me go,” Q says, eyes veiled behind lowered lashes. James almost hesitates when he goes to unbind the boy’s arms; surely such an innocent picture has to be a front. But James has fifty pounds and a killer’s instinct on this slip of a man, and Silva is there as well, so there’s little need for worry.

“I’d say sorry,” James says, “but you knew what you were getting into with MI6.”

Q’s eyes dart toward the door, and the window, when his hands are free, but he doesn’t move. Smart. James approves.

“Don’t kick me,” he says, and kneels to undo the rope around Q’s legs. Q shivers a little with every brush of James’ fingers against the fabric of his ridiculous square-patterned trousers. Halfway through undoing the second leg, Q’s muscles tense; his hands go white-knuckled where they are gripping the seat of the chair.

James looks up to find Tiago kissing him, one hand gripping his chin. “What was that about him being for me?” he says, unwrapping the last bit of rope. He measures the length of his palm around Q’s ankle; his index finger and thumb touch.

“You’re being so slow,” Tiago pouts exaggeratedly.

“He’s delicate.” James shows him his hand wrapped around Q’s leg. “Skinny thing,” he murmurs, trailing his other hand up Q’s calf. The boy is tense. “Relax. This will be much easier on you if you do.”

“I will be missed,” Q says. His voice has only the faintest quaver.

“Ah!” Tiago moves over to the table where his laptop sits. “About that.”

“Oh, here we go.” James rolls his eyes. He gets up, though, and motions Q to do the same. “Showing off. I’m sure you’ll want to see this.”

Q flinches away from his touch, but James is able to herd him so he’s standing behind Tiago with a good view of the screen. “I assume you don’t need me anymore?”

“Be a dear and don’t let the boy try to kill me,” Tiago says, fingers flying over the keys.

“Like that would be such a great loss,” James says.

“You would miss my mouth,” Tiago says cheerfully. “And my hands, hm?” He hits the enter key with a flourish.

Q lets out a heavy breath as code flickers its way across the screen, windows opening and closing in rapid succession. “How…?” he says, and reaches out a hand, mesmerized.

Tiago lets him caress the air in front of the laptop, grinning. He twists in his chair. “I am liking him more and more,” he says to James, and nearly sprains Q’s wrist when Q tries to touch the keyboard.

“Now now, we cannot let you activate any of your little, eh, lifelines,” Tiago says, ignoring Q’s pained grimace. “Do try to be a good boy, hm?”

ii.

They handcuff him to the bedposts, one pair of cuffs for each wrist. They also wind his legs with thick rope, lashing them together in an intricate web up to his thighs. He spends the first hour trying to wriggle free of the cuffs; the second seeing if there’s any give in the ropes. He fails at both.

Around the third hour, he realizes that such security could be considered a compliment. It doesn’t improve his mood.

“I don’t suppose you’ll feed me,” he yells when his stomach growls for the sixth time. What the hell is taking MI6 so long to find him? His captors are just two men, and they’re still in London. Q should have been back at home with a cupppa and his favorite selection of Chinese takeout by now.

“Bastards,” he mutters, shifting on the bed. At least they didn’t leave him in the chair.

Actually, the two of them – Tiago Silva and James-of-the-no-last-name – have been suspiciously hospitable. After practically the first words Q heard Silva utter (really, anybody who sounded that wistful about blood had to be mentally unstable), Q was expecting some torture, perhaps even a messy death. There are certainly those who would like to incapacitate MI6 enough that they would go after Q.

Another half hour later, the door opens. James is the one who enters. He holds a plate.

“Finally remembered I exist?” Q says. It should be relatively safe; James has shown no overt signs of sadism or insanity, unlike Silva.

“Be happy we’re feeding you at all,” James says. His eyes are the cold blue of a wolf’s, face hard with indifference. There is no sign of the kindness he showed earlier in the night when he distracted Silva from his games and advised Q to make things easier on himself.

It doesn’t matter, Q reminds himself. James has so far been the more reasonable one; apathy is nearly as good as sympathy.

“What do you even want me for?” He’s been though plenty of scenarios: they wish to turn him against MI6 (likely); they want to kill him (possible); they are holding him hostage (accurate but not nearly the whole story).

“I didn’t.” James actually answers. “Tiago thought it was good idea because he was _bored_ ,” he rolls his eyes, “and used an excuse to take you.”

“And now?” It’s not knowing that hurts the most; the uncertainty is agonizing.

James’ eyes go suddenly intent. Q swallows. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked. As soon as he thinks it, the mask of neutrality drops over James’ features again, leaving him almost bland.

“Now you eat, unless you’ve changed your mind.”

James isn’t as uninterested as Q thought, then. He makes a careful note; Silva is dangerous, but James is too – and Q has no idea how far either of them well go.

“Not at all,” Q says. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to uncuff even one of my hands?”

“Open up,” James replies, voice dry. He holds up a piece of ravioli. 

“Feeding me with a spoon?” Q says. “Really?”

“Tiago would hate it if I accidentally stabbed you in the jugular,” James observes. “Spoons aren’t nearly as lethal.”

Q has no good reply to that, so he opens his mouth. He can feel his cheeks flushing red.

“Good boy,” James murmurs, low enough that it could just be to himself. Q hears it anyway and flushes deeper.

By the fifth bite the awkwardness has eased, hunger winning out over propriety or pride. Q bobs his head and closes his lips around the spoon, licking up the sauce; James holds his arm still, not pushing after the first attempt at feeding Q nearly resulted in choking.

“…Thank you,” Q says stiffly after they’re done. It’s humiliating, having to thank his captor for feeding him, but the basic training MI6 gives all their operatives states that creating an emotional bond with captors is a good thing. It disposes them to like you, to go easier on you. It encourages them to make mistakes so you can escape.

And all Q needs is five minutes with a computer.

“You’re welcome.” James’ lips quirk. “Sharp little thing, aren’t you.”

“Quite,” Q says. Then: “If you don’t mind…”

“Yes?”

“You acted as if I should know who you were, before, the both of you. I didn’t. So who _are_ you?”

“Hm.” James sits back in his chair, dirty plate on his lap. One hand taps absently on his thigh. “That’s a difficult question to answer.”

“You don’t know who you are?” It comes out snide, although Q was going more for ‘endearingly cheeky.’

“I don’t know how much I can trust you,” James corrects, corners of his mouth lifting in amusement.

“You’ve got me tied up. Who am I going to tell?”

James stands without answering. “We’ll see,” he says. “By the way—this is our bed, so don’t get too comfortable. We only have the one.”

He leaves Q wondering if they’ll move him to the chair again, and if so, how he can use that to his advantage. They must sleep sometime, surely.

He closes his eyes. If his captors need rest, he wants to be awake when they take it. He’ll need to be alert to escape.

iii.

“Did you actually have a plan, or did you just grab him off the street?” James says, sprawled in an armchair. His fingers tap repeatedly on his thigh. “And don’t give me any of that bollocks that he was for me. I know that isn’t why you did it.”

“So cold,” Tiago sighs. He is lounging in his own armchair, laptop balanced neatly on one thigh. “And of course I have a plan. The boy is clever, you know. She knows how to recruit good people.”

Oh. “Is that what this is about?” James lifts his eyes to the ceiling. “You’re jealous and want to ruffle her feathers?”

“Hardly,” Tiago sniffs. “He is wasted on them. She is having him make little,” he flicks his fingers, dismissive, “gadgets. With his skill and a bit of training, he could be toppling governments.”

“You forget that MI6 doesn’t want to be toppling governments. At least, not as loudly as you like to do it.”

“You like it too,” Tiago says mildly. He closes the laptop lid.

James gives the impression of sinking deeper in to his chair. “Oh?”

“Mm.” Silva smiles, a lazy feline smirk of anticipation. “I know how your heart pounds,” he says, placing the laptop on the floor. His shirt stretches across his shoulders, the pattern warping briefly with the strain. “I know how you like the smell of blood, how hot you get after a firefight. You can never wait, James, eyes like ice, beautiful…”

James sighs, head tilting back. He watches from under lowered lashes as Tiago rises, stiffening slightly as lips touch the hinge of his jaw and trail down his neck, Tiago’s breath warming the skin behind his ear. He jerks when Tiago nips, leg kicking out, and Tiago bends his knees and lets the sweep connect. The breath is knocked out of both of them when he falls.

An elbow digs into James’ ribs and is repaid with a sharp nip to Tiago’s lower lip. Tiago chuckles and runs a heavy hand down James’ side, the motion hitching and awkward since they’re both pressed so closely against the upholstery.

“Always the fight with you,” he breathes, and James proves him right by wrapping his legs around Tiago’s waist, heels digging into the backs of Tiago’s knees.

“There’s no fun in something easy,” James says, and bites.


	3. SKYFALL - movie meet cute rewrite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [4:21:37 AM] Alex: what if you just  
> [4:21:40 AM] Alex: rewrote the meeting scene  
> [4:21:43 AM] Alex: INTO PORN  
> [4:22:22 AM] Alex: dubcon into oh god yes con in 5 minutes

This is the closest he’s come in _years._ He can recognize the way James sits, feet planted flat on the ground, arm muscles flexing periodically as he tests his bindings. He sees the shadow of himself, too, in the love he has for _her_ : their maker, their destruction.

 _Brother_ , he wants to whisper into James’ skin.

Instead he tries to reason, but James is too blinded with the idealism that was beaten out of Silva long ago, that _should_ have been beaten out of James. Instead James clings too tightly, has never had _her_ ruthlessness applied directly to him, can’t see the truth.

Silva wants to make him see.

Silva also wants to run his fingers along James’ collarbone, his palms along James’ thighs, and this he does. James’ skin is hot under his clothing, hot under Silva’s hands. His breath hitches a little when Silva cups his jaw.

 _Mistake,_ he notes. Another sign that Silva is a better agent.

James swallows when Silva traces around his adam’s apple, and he presses his thumb briefly into James’ trachea in order to feel the other man stiffen.

“James, James.” He likes the way the man’s name rolls off his tongue, smooth at the start and hissing as the end, no hard consonants. Easy.


	4. AVENGERS - for science!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony&Bruce terrorize Avengers Tower. With science!

“Oh _hell_ no,” Clint says. He drops from where he was investigating the cover of one of the tower’s ventilation shafts.

“If you don’t get me out of here in the next three seconds,” Coulson says, “I will find a way to kill you in your sleep.”

“You already know how to kill me in my sleep,” Clint says, but grabs the handles of Coulson’s wheelchair anyway. “Also, this is getting ridiculous.”

“Stark is inherently ridiculous,” Coulson says. “It’s extremely unfortunate that he sucked Banner in, too.”

Clint sniggers. “I bet he--“

“Wall!”

Clint turns the corner without Coulson’s shoes even brushing the wall, although there is an ominous screeching noise as the wheelchair protests this treatment. The next stretch of hallway is straight for at least fifty feet, and they go flying past various doorways. Natasha opens one just in front of them.

“For science!” Clint yells as they leave her behind. He hears her swearing in Russian before the door slams and she catches up with them, running lightly on bare feet.

“Again?”

“I know,” Clint says, slightly out of breath. “We should file for more hazard pay, seriously.”

Coulson opens his mouth to reply but a distant _boom_ cuts off his words. The floor shudders a little under their feet.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Clint says.

“Now you’ve done it,” Coulson says. He’s right. Another _boom_ splits the air, louder than the previous explosion, followed by a short series of _crack-crack-crack_ noises.

“Tell me they weren’t working on anything related to fireworks,” Coulson says.

“Sorry, but I have no idea, sir.”

“Widow?”

“Nope.”

“—ough now, am I in? Yes? Okay, hey, this is your friendly neighborhood Iron Man speaking, Bruce and I have everything under control down here. Feel free to go about your normal—hey, no, _I’m_ not on fire, the thing, the thing over there is on fire, go over there, oh my god Dummy, Bruce come help me with him—um, yeah, feel free to go about your normal business or whatever, and ignore any other explosions that occur today, okay? Okay. Stark out.”

Coulson very deliberately does not facepalm. “I’m going to kill him one of these days,” he says.

“At least he didn’t say the words,” Clint says optimistically.

The intercom clicks on again. “Bruce thinks that we may be being disruptive and wants to apologize. But you guys can just suck it up, because this is—“

 _For science!_ , all three of them mouth, rolling their eyes.

Natasha holds out a hand. Clint hands over a five dollar bill.

 _”Kill,”_ Coulson says.

 

It starts when the Avengers move into Stark Tower.

(“It’s the Avengers tower now, guys, come on,” Stark says. “There’s an ‘A’ on it and everything. Get it? _Avengers_ tower?”

“Hit him for me,” Coulson says to Clint.

“Sure!” Clint says.)

Well, actually, it starts as soon as Stark and Banner realize that the end-of-the-world stuff is over. Clint and the rest of them just _notice_ when Stark invites them all to stay at the tower.

 

“But why are you using chocolate milk?” Steve is asking when Stark wanders into the kitchen, hair sticking up on one side of his head and the imprint of a keyboard all over his cheek.

“It’s double the chocolate,” Clint explains as he pours milk over his Cocoa Puffs.

“But if you used regular milk it would still—“

“Double. The chocolate,” Clint says. “Hey, Stark.”

Stark flails a hand, hits a mug a robotic arm holds out to him, turns exactly 48 degrees to his right and sticks it straight under what everybody except Steve has figured out is a coffeemaker.

Clint whistles. “Impressive.”

“Tony?” Steve says, worried.

“Ngk!” Stark says, holding up a finger as he drains his mug. He blinks. Clint can literally _see_ the awareness filling in behind his eyes as he licks the last drops of coffee from his upper lip. He blinks again. “Clint? Steve?”

“Morning,” Clint waves, spooning up a mouthful of choclatey deliciousness. Mmm.

“Good morning, Tony,” Steve says. “What have you been up to? We haven’t seen you in a couple of days.”

Oh, he’s using his _disapproval-possibly-hiding-hurt_ voice. Clint winces just on principle.

Stark obviously still isn’t all there, though, since he just blinks again and sips from his magically refilling coffee cup. Clint eyes the coffeemaker narrowly. It doesn’t make _his_ coffee that fast.

“Oh, Bruce and I have been doing…” He waves an arm vaguely, coffee sloshing ominously close to the rim of his mug. “Stuff. Science stuff. Stuff that’s… science-y.”

Steve raises his eyebrow.

“You know,” Stark says. “Science!”

Then he wanders out of the room again.

Clint and Steve share a _look_.


	5. DCU - Due South, sort of, but with Batman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU - Bruce and Dick meet as Batman and Officer Grayson. There is UST, crime-fighting, and delicious smut.

“Oh, _seriously?”_ Dick says as a shadow flies overhead. Two thugs go down with twin cries of pain, dark shadows embedded in their arms, their hands, their legs. Then, louder, as he slams the car door: “Gotham PD! You are under arrest!”

Jimmy “Locks” Stoker ignores him, running in a direction Dick can only guess is defined by ‘not here.’ Dick sighs as he breaks into a sprint. Nothing is ever easy in Gotham.

He has to jump three overturned trash cans, a pile of bagged empty cans, and a mangy, hissing cat before he gets close enough to tackle Jimmy to the ground.

“As I was saying,” he pants, digging his knee into the small of the other man’s back. “You are under arrest. You have the – hands behind your back! – you have the right to remain silent…”

By the time he finishes reading Jimmy his rights and drags him back to where the chase started, all is quiet. Eight criminals are groaning on the floor, tied (very securely) with some sort of nylon twine. 

“This was supposed to be a stakeout,” he says reproachfully. “I could have handled it.”

“Are you crazy?” Jimmy says. He cranes his neck, frantic. “Is he still here?”

“Hell if I know,” Dick says.

“Yes.” Batman _melts_ out of a patch of shadow. Dick is seriously impressed, although he tries not to show it. “And I didn’t want to take the chance.”

“Where’s Jackson?” His partner wouldn’t have just stayed in the car, not with their cover blown and the Bat creating a mess.

“Waiting for you.”

Dick makes it a whole two seconds before realizing that Batman doesn’t intend to speak anymore. He’s heard stories, though, about how he just disappears into the night. Especially in the middle of a conversation.

Batman stays stubbornly present.

“…Where?” Dick asks. “And… Did you want anything else?”

Batman _looks_ at him, eyes hidden behind flat white lenses, mouth a thin, uncompromising line.

 _Then_ he disappears, on Dick’s next blink.

“Holy fuck,” Jimmy says. “Fucking creepy, Jesus Christ.”

“Feel free to exercise your right to remain silent at any time,” Dick says.

 

“So,” Commissioner Gordon says, rubbing at his mustache. “You’ve met him, have you?”

“Yes, sir,” Dick says. It had been in his report, which is the only reason he can think of that the Commissioner called him up to meet. Dick may be in Major Crimes, but he’s still a rookie.

“Seems like he likes you,” the Commissioner says.

“What?” Dick blurts out before he can stop himself. “Sir,” he adds.

“You say he spoke to you? Stuck around? Actually answered some of your questions?” Dick fights the urge to fidget at Gordon’s squint.

“Yes, sir.”

Gordon sighs and taps his fingers against his desk. “He definitely likes you.”

“Oh.” Okay, that’s just lame. “Is that a good thing?”

The Commissioner rolls his eyes. “I’ll let you know.”

“Ah,” Dick says. He can’t think of anything else to add.

“Well, I just wanted to put your mind at rest about the Batman,” Gordon says, taking pity on him. “Good job chasing down Stoker.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dick shifts, ready to be dismissed.

“Oh, and Officer Grayson?”

“Sir?”

“Drop the ‘sir,’ would you?”

“Yes, s—Commissioner.”

He’s sure he can hear a sigh and a _”kids these days”_ as he leaves the room, and has to stifle a snort.

 

The next time he sees Batman, Dick is falling off a roof. (Actually, in the spirit of full disclosure, he’s in the process of swearing vociferously _while_ falling off a roof, the former being – he thinks – a perfectly reasonable response to the latter.)

“—h shit oh shit oh _fuck_ just give me a pipe a fire escape god _dammnit_ \-- “

He makes an undignified “oof” sound when a strong arm catches him around the middle, a Kevlar-plated armor impacting against his side half a second later. The urge to latch onto something solid is immediate and irresistible; by the time he has control over his body again, his arms are clutched securely around Batman’s chest, his legs around Batman’s waist.


	6. MI4 - will/ethan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> http://ghotocol-kink.livejournal.com/1494.html?thread=409046#t409046  
> The team rendezvous at a prearranged hotel after a completed mission. But! The hotel are very sorry to inform them of an error in booking, so they only have two single rooms and one double available. Cue hilarity as Jane and Benji quickly call dibs on the singles, leaving Ethan and Brandt in an awkward (but potentially sexy/hilarious) situation.
> 
> Bonus points if Brandt is hesitant but reasons with himself that it's just for one night, it's cool, the bed's big enough, there's nothing weird about this while Ethan goes to great lengths to fuck (with) him.

“Nose goes!” Benji says, lifting a hand to his face. Jane reacts nearly as quickly, dropping her suitcase and touching her finger to her nose before it hits the floor.

“What?” Ethan says.

“You can’t be serious,” Will says.

Jane and Benji are very, very serious.

“How do you want to do this?” Ethan lounges casually against a wall, bags by his feet.

The IMF had booked them hotel rooms after their latest mission, granting a week’s leave to lay low and rest. Will (because it used to be his job) knows that the time is more for things to calm down and for security to relax around transportation hubs than any real consideration for the agents in the field. Usually the rooms are fairly opulent, at least equivalent to a four-star; IMF didn’t disappoint this time, but there was a mix-up in the reservations. Instead of four singles, there are two singles and a double. The double has a single queen-sized bed.

“Anything you want is fine with me,” Will says, shrugging. It _is_ fine; he has no problems sleeping on the couch. He’s bedded down in plenty of worse places, after all.

“Okay then,” Ethan says, and Will is already moving towards the sofa when he finishes the sentence. “I’ll take the side of the bed closest to the door.”

“I vote room service,” Benji says. He looks up from where he’s peering over Jane’s shoulder at the television screen. “And champagne! With the, you know, the things...”

“Complimentary chocolates?” Ethan suggests. “Folded napkins?”

 _”Ambiance,”_ Jane says, and both she and Benji burst into giggles. “For you and Will!”

“There’s nothing wrong with sharing a bed,” Ethan says. Will wishes he could melt into the floor. Or the wall. Or teleport somewhere far, far away.

“Nothing wrong for _you_ ,” Benji says. “I remember the last time we had to bunk together.”

There’s a pause. Will tells himself he won’t ask, he doesn’t want to know--

“What happened?”

“Oh,” Benji’s face lights up with an unholy grin. “This is a good story.”

“It isn’t,” Ethan assures the wall. His expression is exquisitely unconcerned, although he’s not meeting anybody’s eyes. “Nothing happened.”

“I woke up with your hand down my pants!” Benji says, and Will chokes. Jane bursts into laughter.

“I needed a gun!” Ethan says. Then he realizes how that could be taken. “...A real gun. An actual gun. A gun that I could fire--damn it.”

Benji and Jane are clutching each other now, howling and hitting each others’ shoulders. Will’s eyes are the size of dinner plates.

“And then,” Benji wheezes. “And then I’m awake and the sheets fall and the maid--”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Ethan says. Everybody else ignores him.

“--just sort of drops her hands and stares, and I’m still half asleep, and Ethan--”

“No, really, stop,” Ethan says.

“--Ethan says--”

 _”No,”_ Ethan says.

“‘This is an undercover operation!’”

After they’ve stopped laughing (it takes a while -- they’ll pause and then one of them will choke out a “compromised!” or “undercover!” and set them off again -- even Ethan cracks a smile) they do order room service, and spend the evening piled up on the bed watching some sort of cooking show.

“What are we even looking at?” Jane lost her hair tie sometime in the past four hours; there’s a soft fuzzy tangle around her head and on the sheets. She’s half-asleep and looks it in her sweatshirt and shorts.

“I think they’re fishing for squid.”

“Why squid?”

“So it’s fresh?”

“But this is a cooking show.” Ethan sounds baffled.

“Okay, that’s it.” Will, as always, is the voice of reason. “If we can’t figure out what’s happening on a cooking show, we’re in no shape to be doing anything. Off to bed.”

Benji snickers. “You just want Ethan and his hands all to yourself.”

Will can feel his ears heating. “I do not.”

“I’m hurt,” Ethan drawls.

“Be careful,” Benji warns. “He’s a cuddler.”

“So,” Will says.

“So,” Ethan says.

They stand awkwardly on either side of the bed in a parody of a Mexican standoff. Ethan is bare-chested, clad in a pair of black cotton boxers; Will’s got on an undershirt and sweatpants.

“After you,” Ethan gestures, a smirk playing around the edges of his mouth.

“”You aren’t really, you know... a cuddler, are you?”

Ethan outright grins at that. “I don’t know what I do when I’m asleep, Brandt.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Will mutters. He slides under the sheets anyway. “You better not hog all the blankets.”

“Would I do that?” The mattress dips. Will can feel Ethan’s body heat; the bed is large, but not large enough to fit two grown men entirely comfortably.

“You would.”

“Good night, Brandt.” He still sounds amused, damn it.

“‘Night.”

Will stares up at the shadows obscuring the ceiling long enough for Ethan’s breathing to even out. Then he turns his head slowly, careful not to make too much noise.

Ethan sleeps on his on his back -- of course he does, all field agents know that it’s harder to react from a belly-down position -- but his head is tilted left, and hair falls helplessly over his forehead and the bridge of his nose. The muscles around the corners of his eyes and mouth are relaxed. It makes him look years younger, and if not innocent then at least more carefree. Will’s fingers suddenly itch to touch, to brush the bangs off Ethan’s forehead and trace the slack shape of his lips. He clenches his hand in his sweatpants to stop himself.

 _No,_ he thinks, exhaling. “No.”

“Yes,” Ethan says clearly, and Will twitches. Ethan’s eyes are still closed, though, and he doesn’t say anything else.

He’s sleep-talking. Sleep-arguing, really -- even when Ethan isn’t conscious, he still contradicts whatever Will says. Typical.

Will closes his eyes. It’s difficult for him to sleep, always has been, but it’s gotten worse since Croatia. Ironically, Ethan’s presence next to him is soothing; knowing that Ethan is there, where Will can protect him (and yes, he knows Ethan can take care of himself but Will’s subconscious won’t accept that) is like balm on a wound.

Ethan makes a rather adorable snuffling noise and shifts close enough for their arms to touch. Will reminds himself to make fun of him later, the thought lingering as Morpheus brings him under.

Will wakes up hot. Hot in a temperature way -- he’s sweating, but when he moves to kick of the sheets there’s something restricting his freedom of movement. In an instant he grabs his gun (under the pillow: a cliche, but an effective one) and opens his eyes.

Ethan stares back at him, close, irises silver-grey in the cold morning light.

He takes stock of the situation. Ethan’s arm is slung around his waist, leg tangled in both of Will’s. There’s maybe an inch of space between them.

“...So you _are_ a cuddler?” The question comes out less sardonic than he would have liked, sleep-rough voice sounding almost -- inviting. Seductive. Shit, that is not the impression he wants to make.

He eels backwards, Ethan letting him go. The other man stays prone, relaxed posture and alert eyes reminding Will of a big jungle cat he saw once, waiting patiently for suitable prey to pounce on and devour.

“You were moving around.” Ethan shrugs, muscles moving smoothly under his skin. “I tried to calm you down, and touching you seemed to work. Don’t think I don’t know that you have trouble sleeping. You need this downtime as much as any of us, maybe more.”

“I never said I didn’t.” Will doesn’t mean to sound defensive, but it’s been a long time since somebody has cared about his well-being for a reason other than mission functionality. Concern doesn’t sit right, both smothering and comforting at once, confusing. 

“What time is it?” It’s a blatant attempt to change the subject, but Ethan doesn’t call him on it. Instead he rolls over to squint at the clock.

“Seven-thirty.”

Will flops back onto the bed. “That’s way too early.”

“Hm.” Ethan, contrary to any sort of sense, extracts himself from the covers and rolls off the bed to his feet. “I doubt you’ll be able to go back to bed after that adrenaline rush.”

He’s right -- Will can feel the buzzing under his skin, lighting up his nerves. He won’t even be able to doze.

“Coffee.”

“Coffee,” Ethan agrees.

Ethan is driving Will _insane_. He casually pads around the room in his boxers, bare feet naked and vulnerable on the plush carpet, arms and back flexing with each movement. His nipples are a little peaked because the air conditioning is on.

Will grits his teeth and tells himself he will not get an erection.

He drinks his coffee with grim focus, pointedly not looking at how Ethan’s hair is sticking up a little on one side or the sharp jut of the other man’s hipbones. He’s still technically married, for gods sake, even if he can never really see his wife again.

“We’re staying in,” Ethan says, voice too loud in the silence of the room, jarring. “Team bonding day.”

“Oh god,” Will says. “The last time this happened my nails were blue for two weeks.”

Ethan looks smug. “I bought nail polish remover.”

“Somehow I feel that our entire first mission together should count as the most effective bonding exercise ever, and we should just be exempt from any other one.”

“Jumping out of buildings together isn’t the same as letting your teammates braid your hair, Brandt.”

This is Will’s point exactly. Somehow he doesn’t think that Ethan understands what he’s getting at.

Will jerks off in the shower because Ethan started bending over every possible surface, sprawling and languid, and because he hasn’t had the time or energy for anything but the mission in the past two weeks. It feels good, tension uncoiling from along his spine, and his walk is a little looser when he strides out of the bathroom fully dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

“I ordered breakfast,” Ethan says as they pass each other. “Tip the concierge, would you?”

He’s already stripping out his boxers. Will jerks his head away.

“Sure.” Does his voice sound strangled? He thinks it sounds strangled. He doesn’t breathe until the bathroom door is shut behind Ethan’s (naked, naked and pale and he should look ridiculous but he doesn’t) self.

By the time Will is done fishing out their stack of cash and pulling a couple of bills, there’s a knock on the door.

“Well?” Benji and Jane’s grinning faces are not what he expected to see. “How was last night?”

“Good morning to you too,” Will deadpans, but steps aside to let them in.

“Last night,” Jane repeats impatiently. “Did anything happen?”

“Did you wake up with hands in a place they shouldn’t have been?” Benji is enjoying this _way too much_. They both are, really.

“No,” Brandt says, giving his most quelling glare. Considering that they’re on a team with Ethan Hunt, it’s to be expected that it doesn’t faze them one bit. 

The rumble of the shower is audible through the wall; Benji and Jane know they’ve got some time to grill Will. Ethan likes to take long showers when he can.

“Did he sleep in the nude?” Will is starting to think that they know something he doesn’t. They’re just a little too amused, a little too invested. Maybe this whole arrangement is a test. Maybe Ethan is trying to throw Will off his game, although for the life of him Will can’t think of a reason why.

“Black boxers,” he admits, and is thankfully saved from further interrogation by another knock on the door.

“That’s breakfast,” he says, relieved.

Ethan must have been exercising his supernatural powers of precognition (or else he just knows his team well, which Will thinks is more likely) because there are four servings of breakfast of the room service cart, still steaming and smelling heavenly. Will tips generously.

“Hash browns!” Benji sounds delighted. “Ethan is the best team leader.”

“Hey, I could have ordered breakfast.” Will’s action betray his words as he leans forward to see what else Ethan ordered. Scrambled eggs, french toast, Cinnamon buns, pancakes, and pitchers of orange juice are all present. Oatmeal porridge and a poached egg sit slightly to the side.

“But you didn’t. And these,” Jane picks up the side dishes, “are mine.”

“Where’s the ketchup?”

“Forget the ketchup, where’s the syrup?”

“Are those pancakes blueberry or chocolate chip?”

“Kids,” Ethan drawls. Both Benji and Will jump. Jane grins at them from the sofa, evil porridge-eating woman that she is. “Behave, or no breakfast for you.”

“Where did you come from?”

Ethan raises an eyebrow. His hair is still wet, slicked back and dripping at the ends onto his bare shoulders. He’s clad only in a towel.

Will swallows. “Stupid question, Benji.”

“Hey!”

Ethan raises a hand, droplets of water clinging to his skin and sliding down his forearm. “Don’t make me separate you two.”

“Like you could,” Will’s mouth says before his brain can censor it.

“Oh?” Ethan steps closer, close enough that Will can feel the heat emanating off his skin. “Who’s the one who still wins most of our sparring sessions?”

“...Do I have to answer that?” he manages after a moment. Ethan’s eyes crinkle a little at the corners.

“Save me some food.” Ethan doesn’t answer Will’s question, just turns and walks back into the bedroom. Will watches his back for two seconds, then remembers there are other people in the room and averts his gaze.

“Wow,” Benji says. “Did you think that was a little...”

“Oh, yeah,” Jane says. “He’s really playing it up.”

“So it isn’t just me then,” Will says, relieved.

They both look at him: incredulous, pitying.

“That’s why.”

“Yep.”

Will’s questions about what Benji and Jane meant when they said Ethan was being obvious go unanswered. He tries to interrogate them about it, but Jane just eats her porridge and Benji stammers until Ethan comes out dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt approximately thirty seconds later, which is ridiculous. Nobody changes that fast.

He thinks about voicing that thought, then considers the numerous responses Benji and Jane could have.

“Do you want blueberry, chocolate, or normal pancakes?” he says instead, pointing at each plate in turn. They’re stacked six-high.

Ethan shrugs. “Give me one of each.”

“Adventurous,” Benji comments. He has no room to talk; he’s spearing his fourth pancake with a syrup-smeared fork. “So what are our plans for this week?”

“Well...” Ethan says. Brandt shakes his head frantically at Benji behind his back, then affects a thin facade of nonchalance when Jane glances at him, curious.

“I figured we could have a team bonding day.”

Immediately Jane’s face lights up. Benji blinks, fork frozen in the air. Will hangs his head and nearly face-plants in strawberries and whipped cream.

“You had to say that,” he mutters.

“Sorry?” Ethan asks with a grin.

“Yeah, what did you say?” Jane’s voice is vicious in its sweetness. Will pictures a Venus Flytrap, lying in wait until an innocent insect wanders by to be slowly digested.

“Nothing,” Will says.

“Good,” Jane chirps. “I’ll be right back with the makeup and nail polish!”

She disappears out the door. Both Benji and Will slump in their chairs.

“Couldn’t you have sprung this on us _later_ in the day?” Benji’s voice is distinctly whiny. “When she wouldn’t have so much time to do all the stuff she’s planning to do?”

“I refuse,” Will says, “to have makeup put on me again. It took me an hour and a half to wash it off last time.”

“I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do,” Ethan says. He’s just sitting there eating his pancakes, the smug bastard. “But do remember that time where Jane had to seduce our target. And the times she’s saved your life. And the time--”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Will grumbles. “Nobody ever brings up the time I jumped out of a thirty story building for the mission, or when I nearly got cooked.”

“Are you bringing that up again?” Benji says. “I thought you got over it.”

“I will never get over it,” Will says. “I was nearly impaled. On a giant turbine.”

“I said I would have caught you and I did!” Benji says.

“Hey!” Jane calls from outside. “Open up, my hands are full.”

Will and Benji share a look of dread while Ethan strides over to open the door. It’s all right for him, he’s eerily good at dealing with makeup and the related cosmetics. It’s probably a holdover from the times when the IMF didn’t have masks, or maybe from experience with Julia. Will doesn’t ask; he’s not sure he wants to know.

“Oh, lighten up.” Jane laughs at the looks on their faces. “I’ll be generous and let you finish eating and watch a movie before starting. You can even choose if you want to do nails, hair, or makeup first.”

“I need a trim,” Ethan volunteers. Evil, Will and Benji agree through silent communication. Pure evil in human form.

“I _don’t_ need a trim,” Will says.

“Neither do I!” Benji says. “You and Ethan can go do that, and Will and I will finish eating our breakfast.”

“Cowards,” Jane says, but she’s smiling and already pulling Ethan toward the bathroom. “Shame you just took a shower,” she comments in an undertone. “Although wet hair is good, I suppose.”

Will tries not to picture the way Ethan looked last night, acres of bare skin shifting as he shrugged.

“I can just rinse off again afterwards. It’s fine.”

Benji moves over so that he and Will can whisper to each other without the other two hearing.

“So what are we going to do?”

“Grin and bear it,” Will whispers back. “And pick a really good, really _long_ movie to watch.”

They decide to watch a _Star Trek_ marathon. In a stroke of luck, the television channel showing it has just started _The Wrath of Khan_. They make it halfway through _The Search for Spock_ before both Jane and Ethan start to fidget.

Ethan leans over. “Hand me my laptop, would you?” His breath stirs the short hair at the base of Will’s neck, brushing hot over his ear. Will stifles a shiver.

“If I have to sit through you and Jane painting my nails and doing strange things to my face, you have to watch Star Trek,” he mutters back. “No distractions.”

“We’ve seen this before.”

“Well, Jane’s painted my nails before.”

“I do have nail polish remover, you know.”

“Oi!” Benji hisses at them. “Quiet! This is the best bit.”

Will and Ethan both sit back, chastised. Jane covers her mouth with a hand.

 _I see you_. Will points at his eyes, then at her. She twirls a hand in a _whatever_ motion.

“Wait,” Ethan speaks up just as they finally find Spock. Benji nearly has a seizure, making grasping, strangling motions aimed at his neck. “Is the next movie the whale one?”

“Argh!” Benji jabs at the television screen, at Ethan, at the screen again. “You--Spock--”

“Calm down, Benji,” Will says dryly. “We’ve seen it before, it’s okay.”

“No! No it isn’t!”

“But is the next one the one with the whales or not?” Ethan insists.

“You--!” Benji in a rage isn’t very common, but interrupting a Star Trek marathon would do it. “You--I can’t even--”

“Boys!” Jane barks. “Don’t make me get the ice water!”

Everybody calms down. She actually will douse them in ice water; Will remembers the last time vividly. Will and Ethan were arguing (shouting, really, neither of them were listening to a word the other was saying) and neither would back down. They almost came to blows over it before Jane had thrown an entire pitcher of ice water over both of them.

Ethan had cornered Will later, in the bathroom, to awkwardly not-apologize. Will was still shivering and had just wanted to change; Ethan’s modifications to his plan that altered it from ‘suicidal’ to merely ‘insanely dangerous’ were enough of a concession that he didn’t argue for more.

Sometimes he wonders if he’ll ever have the courage, the sheer bloody-minded stubbornness to stand up to Ethan when he really wants something. So far he’s folded every time.

“...Sorry,” both Benji and Ethan mutter. Benji is still shooting dirty looks at Ethan, although now they’re laced more with exasperation than anger.

They finish off the remains of breakfast while the credits roll to cool down. Ethan presses close enough for their arms to touch and whispers in Will’s ear. “So really, is the next one the one with the whales?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Mm.” He can feel Ethan’s approving hum all along his side, resonating against his shoulder blade. His breathing deepens a little.

“Hey, cuddlebunnies,” Jane says. Will jerks upright. When did he start slumping, body curving into Ethan’s heat along his side? He thinks maybe Ethan makes an annoyed noise, but it’s lost under Jane’s questions about what board games they should go out and buy.

“Risk,” Will suggests.

Ethan votes for Monopoly and Jenga; Benji names some sort of roleplaying thing that everybody else shoots down. Jane nods.

“And we’ll get Apples to Apples too, of course. We have normal cards, right?”

“Right.”

She disappears to the phone again. Benji migrates to his laptop to check something online. Ethan stays where he is, decidedly inside Will’s personal space.

“Monopoly?” Will questions idly.

“It has long rounds,” Ethan says. “And I’m good at it.”

“But you’ve never been up against me before.”

Ethan glances at him sideways, eyes narrowed. “Don’t try and play the analyst card.”

Will huffs a little, amused. “If it’s true...”

“Hm.” Ethan relaxes even more, practically sprawling out over Will and the rest of the bed. Will’s never seen him like this, boneless and relaxed, eyes closed. Well no, that’s a lie -- he saw Ethan like that last night, under the covers, bare skin warm against--

“It’s starting!” Benji closes his laptop with a snap. Will twitches. Ethan rolls his head so he can see both Benji and the television. “Jane, come on, _The Voyage Home_ is starting.”

Jane enters the bedroom again.

“Shove over,” she says to Ethan, who shifts obligingly closer to Will. They’re practically on top of each other now, pressed together shoulder to ankle.

“All right?” Ethan asks. Will makes a vaguely affirmative noise; he doesn’t trust his voice. The mattress dips and Jane climbs on and settles herself.

“You look like a giant puppy pile,” Benji says.

Ethan’s voice is lazy. “You could join us.”

“Where, in your lap?”

“If that’s what you prefer.”

“No thanks,” Benji says. “You have bony knees.”

Will blinks. “Do I want to know this story?”

“No,” Ethan says.

“No,” Benji says.

“Okay,” Will says. “Now I definitely want to know.”

“So do I,” Jane seconds.

They postpone their questions when the movie starts. Nobody is quiet this time; even Ethan has seen it one more than once, and they provide a running commentary on the events happening onscreen.

“I bet you’d make a good Spock,” Will says to Ethan. “You could pull off the headband.”

Ethan elbows him in the ribs.

“No, no,” Benji grins. “He’s too short. Spock is way taller.”

Benji is too far away to elbow. He gets a pillow to the face instead.

“If anything, Ethan would be Sulu,” Jane declares. She doesn’t get elbowed.

“I’m okay with being George Takei,” Ethan says comfortably.

“George Takei is awesome,” Benji agrees. “I would be Scotty, obviously.”

“Does that leave me Uhura?” Jane says.

“Does that leave me McCoy?” Brandt says.

“Uhura is amazing,” Benji says. “And if anything, Will would be Spock.”

“Analyst,” Will says, smug. This time Ethan pokes him in the side. Will yelps, squirming; it caught him in a tender part of his ribs, and he struggles not to laugh. “Don’t do that!”

“Spock isn’t ticklish,” Ethan taunts.

“I am not ticklish!”

“Prove it,” Ethan purrs, predatory, and is pushing himself up before Jane yanks him back down. He falls on Will’s arm with a _whoof._

“What was that for?”

“If you knock me off this bed, I will never forgive you.”

“I wouldn’t--”

“Yes. You would.”

Ethan sighs.

Will’s nails end up a glittery blue. Benji has it worse: his are bright red. Ethan, that bastard, distracts Jane from doing _his_ nails by helping her with her own, taking her hand in his and applying thin, even coats of pale pink varnish.

“I know I’ve said this before,” Jane says appreciatively, “but you’re very good at this.”

“Thank you,” Ethan says, equally appreciative. Will and Benji look at each other.

 _I’m the only sane one_ , Will is thinking. He knows the thought shows on his face.

Benji shakes his head. _No,_ I’m _the only sane one_ , he mimes.

They stare at each other a little longer.

_We can both be the only sane ones._

“Are you done?” Ethan looks at them over Jane’s fingers, blowing lightly to help the polish dry. Jane smirks at them as she sits, a queen being waited on hand and foot.

It’s kind of creepy how Ethan can overhear mental conversations. Sometimes Will thinks that he can’t actually be real, that he’s a genetic experiment cooked up by some crazy IMF scientist and released into the unsuspecting populace, but then again: he’s read Ethan’s file and the man is all too human. It’s easy to forget like this, all of them relaxed and happy, but Will never makes the mistake of thinking that Ethan will ever be unguarded or helpless.

Will himself lost most of his illusions long ago, the last of them bled away on a street-side in Croatia, listening to the panicked calls for backup that he was too far away to give.

“We’re done,” Benji says, sheepish. “Speaking of done, by the way – forty-eight hour deadline is coming up soon. Secondary reports are due.”

The IMF is actually fairly lenient about reports, if only because they’re basically an invisible black-ops organization; there’s the immediate post-mission report, given when the detail are still fresh. Will remembers that plenty of op folders are missing these, agents too injured after a mission to debrief properly, teams KIA. The secondary reports are much more common; each agent writes up what happened according to their point of view, with room for comments on the behavior of their teammates. It’s kind of like those peer evaluation forms they made you do when you had group projects in school, except not nearly as annoying.

Will has never written anything even remotely disparaging about his team in the employee sections; what criticisms he has are always mitigated by the fact that Ethan’s plans _work_.

To be honest, he’s never before felt the easy sense of belonging Jane and Benji and Ethan give him, like slotting into a well-worn groove. Living with them, running and fighting and sleeping in the same space, bound together with blood and violence and love, feels instinctive. Natural. Will doesn’t want to lose that.

He thinks of wolves and packs, birds and imprinting. Looking into somebody’s eyes and falling in love.

“I’ll get the laptops,” Ethan says, getting to his feet. His knees crack.

“I’ll get the Cheetos!” Benji loves the stuff, gets cheese dust all over his fingers and licks them clean. Will wrinkles his nose.

Jane looks at her nails. “I’ll wait a little while.”

They all look at Will.

“What?” he says. “I finished mine already. I think I’ll go take a nap.”

“I hate you,” Jane assures him with great sincerity.

Benji makes a rude gesture.

Will falls asleep quickly, lulled by the soft voices of his team and the quiet clack of computer keys drifting in from the other room. When he wakes up again it’s just him and Ethan.

“You slept all the way through dinner,” Ethan’s voice is soft. “I saved you some food.”

Will makes a muffled noise into his pillow and stretches, spine twisting and toes curling, arms up over his head. Ethan huffs out a low amused sound.

“Should I bring it to you in bed, then?”

“Mm.” Will’s voice is scratchy. “Would you?”

“Get your own food, Brandt.”

Will doesn’t hear him leave, but Ethan goes shoeless indoors and his sock-clad feet would be silent on the carpet anyway. He lies sprawled on the bed for a minute more, then throws off the covers. His own bare feet make faint scuffing noises; he’s too sleepy to walk with anything approaching his normal grace.

“Oh,” he says when he reaches the kitchen, because now he can smell steak and he’s _starving_. “Oh, god, I’m hungry.”

“You should be.” Will can hear the smile in Ethan’s tone, but he doesn’t look. The steak all but melts in his mouth and he makes an embarrassingly loud noise. “It’s ten o’clock.”

That pops Will’s eyes open.

“What?”

“We’ve got a week’s leave,” Ethan shrugs. “And you were tired. I let you rest.”

“Yeah, but now my sleep schedule’s going to be screwed up.”

“Eat a lot and go straight back to bed. I guarantee you’ll be out in five.”

“If you’re wrong, do I get a prize?”

“Well.” Ethan’s eyes go half-lidded and lazy, dangerous. “I’ll owe you one.”

Will doesn’t have a snappy reply to that, so he finishes his steak and vegetables with a minimum of appreciative noises. The sleepiness hits almost immediately, food sitting warm in his belly and making his limbs lax.

“Come on.” Ethan appears again from wherever he went off to, hauling Will up with a hand on his elbow. “Brush your teeth and go back to bed.”

Will blinks at him, slowly. “You aren’t going to join me?”

Ethan’s mouth quirks up at the corners. “I’ll be there before you. _I_ didn’t get the luxury of a nap, remember.”

“Whine, whine, whine,” Will yawns, heading toward the bathroom. He’s already in his sleepwear so he doesn’t bother to change, just brushes his teeth and washes his face. When he makes his way out into the bedroom again Ethan is already under the covers.

Ethan’s eyes are closed, so it’s safe for Will to stop for a moment and appreciate the view. For a quick, aching moment he wishes he could have this every day, Ethan sprawled loose and boneless and relaxed in his bed, could come back from a mission and laze around drinking coffee and watching inane movies, could cook and take care of each other and make it seem _normal_.

Then he swallows and remembers: they are IMF agents. Normal isn’t really in the cards.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” Ethan’s eyes slit open as he lifts the covers. “Come on.”

Will joins Ethan on the mattress and tries not to be disappointed when Ethan pulls his hand back quickly enough that they don’t touch. Contrarily, his body decides that no, he’s had enough sleep and he doesn’t need any more. After the third time he shifts trying to get comfortable, Ethan places a restraining hand on his chest. Will stills.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Hn.” Ethan rolls so that he’s facing Will, face all but pressed into Will’s neck. His breath gusts across Will’s skin. “You need to relax.”

“I’m relaxed,” Will protests. He closes his eyes and goes limp to prove it. Ethan presses down a little in reproof, enough for Will to feel the pressure against his sternum.

“You aren’t relaxed. Your mind’s running in circles. I know how you are when you’re thinking.”

“Well, I can’t just _stop_ thinking.”

“Close your eyes.”

Will huffs. “My eyes are already closed.”

He can just barely feel the curl of Ethan’s lips of against his skin, more a shifting of air than any skin-to-skin contact. “Good.”

And then Ethan begins to speak in a soft, measured voice: _”Whose woods these are, I think I know / his house is in the village though / he will not see me stopping here / to watch his woods fill up with snow.”_

“Frost?” Will says, but Ethan doesn’t pause.

_“My little horse must think it queer / to stop without a farmhouse near / between the woods and frozen lake / the darkest evening of the year.”_

Will settles in to listen, watching shimmering red and green specks dance behind his closed eyelids. Ethan’s voice rumbles in his ear; his neck warms and cools as Ethan speaks.

_“He gives his harness bells a shake / to ask if there is some mistake / the only other sound’s the sweep / of the easy wind and downy flake.”_

Will’s breathing deepens and slows, following the rhythm of the poem. He knows, in a distant sort of way, that if he tries to move his limbs will be sluggish. Ethan is weaving a spell around him with his skin and his scent and his voice in Will’s ear, close and low enough that it feels like Ethan is transmitting the words directly into Will’s brain.

 _“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,”_ Ethan is murmuring now. Will can’t control the way his neck arches a little, giving Ethan access to more skin and bringing his ear closer to Ethan’s lips. _“But I have promises to keep / and miles to go before I sleep.”_

He pauses, long enough for Will to drift off into the hazy in-between place before true slumber, where it’s impossible to tell whether things are real or dreamed.

 _“And miles to go before I sleep,”_ Ethan says again, barely enough breath for sound. Will isn’t sure, but he thinks that Ethan presses a kiss to his shoulder before he stops registering anything at all.

This time Will wakes up on top of Ethan. His face is buried against Ethan’s shoulder, his leg flung carelessly, possessively over Ethan’s calves. He breathes deep and easy and hopes that Ethan doesn’t wake up.

Ethan doesn’t. He’s awake already.

“You going to let me up?”

“Shut up,” Will says. He’s sleep-glutted, head fuzzy from too much rest, muscles loathe to obey his brain’s commands. “You’re lucky I didn’t drool on you.”

“That would be so undignified,” Ethan agrees. He turns, arm coming up to cradle Will’s neck. Will’s leg slides back onto the mattress with a faint thump.

Ethan smells like clean sweat and spice, and when Will slits open his eyes he’s greeted with the smooth skin of Ethan’s chest. He wets his lower lip.

“Are you going to let me have my arm back, or do I have to dump that too?”

“Just shake me off,” Will mumbles. “I don’t want to move.”

Ethan laughs. Will is starting to suspect that he’s a _morning person_. It’s awful.

He slips Will’s head onto a pillow, switching it out for his arm in one deft movement. Will watches as he gets out of bed, boxers riding low on his hips.

“We’re going out for lunch,” Ethan tosses over his shoulder on the way to the bathroom. “Benji wants to go to some space tech museum, and Jane wants to go shopping.”

“Bookstore,” Will means to say, but it gets muffle by the pillow. The bathroom door closes.

Will finally drags himself out of bed at eleven o’clock, brushing his teeth and shaving in the shower. He goes without his suit; they’re acting as tourists, but not _vulgar_ ones – he dons a polo shirt and slacks instead and deems himself worthy to venture outside.

 _”Finally,”_ Jane says, smiling at him.

Will shrugs. He’s allowed to sleep in sometimes, and says so.

“But not when there’s shopping to be done,” Jane says. “I heard there was this great place for knives.”

“Museum first!” Benji interjects, and for a dizzying instant Will feels like the father of two very dangerous siblings.

Ethan catches his eye and smirks; god, he must feel like this _all the time_. Except no, Ethan is crazier than all of them, he’s probably the older brother that eggs everybody else on. Just when Will opens his mouth to give his vote, Ethan speaks.

“Museum first,” he says. Benji shoots a look of silent triumph at Jane. Jane rolls her eyes but doesn’t seem too put out. “Then we can do the tourist thing. But before all that, we need to get lunch – any preferences?”

“Greek,” Jane volunteers.

“Thai?”

“Chinese.”

“Asian wins,” Ethan says. “Fusion?”

“I’m all right with fusion,” the rest of them agree.

 

 

The space museum is cool; Benji geeks out over the rockets and shuttles and engine parts, and the rest of them admire the bulky-sleek lines of the spacecraft and read the little plaques next to each exhibit. They spend an inordinate amount of time in the gift shop. Ethan comes out of it with solar system themed socks; Will is seduced into buying a t-shirt with line art of the Endeavor space shuttle. Benji gets a little model of STS-1 Space Shuttle Columbia on a stand.

“What?” he says defensively. “It’ll look good next to the Enterprise.”

“At least this one is real,” Will opines.

“Star Trek is a way of life,” Benji snaps.

 

Jane goes a little dreamy in the knife shop. Ethan buys his sixth Swiss army knife in two months. (One and two got dropped down elevator shafts, three was left somewhere on the side of the road, four was melted, and five broke irreparably after being used to jam some heavy-duty steel doors.) Will eyes a short, curved dagger but eventually decides against it; he wanders over to help Benji pick out a nice stiletto instead.

They leave Jane there in favor of the used bookstore two blocks away. Benji disappears to the Science-Fiction and Fantasy section as soon as they enter. Ethan trails after Will as he browses Literature.

 _”Catch-22?”_ Ethan laughs. “Feeling a little crazy there, Brandt?”

“Ah, but if I wanted to be crazy, wouldn’t I be sane?”

“But if you wanted to stick with us, wouldn’t you be crazy?”

“Maybe. At least I don’t have flies in my eyes.”

Ethan raises an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure you’re taking that line out of context.”

“Most likely,” Will admits, undisturbed. “Does it bother you, O memorizer of poems?”

“I haven’t memorized that many,” Ethan says. “Just that one. And maybe ‘I could not stop for Death’ by Emily Dickinson.”

“Mm, you like the classics.”

Ethan shrugs, not quite meeting his eyes. “It could come in handy sometime.”

“Hey, my sleep schedule thanks you.”

“Oh, yes.” Ethan’s grin is a knife’s edge in the night, there and gone. “My dulcet tones just lulled you off—“

“Okay now, _dulcet_ may be too much of an exaggeration here—“

“What, you won’t flatter me after I recited poetry for you? I’m hurt.”

“Yeah, well I’m not romance-movie girl you’re wooing, am I, so if you want me to swoon you’re fresh out of luck.”

Ethan flashes his canines at Will again, eyes intent. “Are you sure about that?”

“Uh?” Will says articulately, but Ethan turns and vanishes. Will replays their conversation in his head. Were they just flirting with each other? He thinks they were just flirting with each other.

He runs his entire acquaintance with Ethan back through his mind. Ethan has, in fact, if Will is right, been flirting with him since _two months ago_. He’s just really turned it all the way up with the whole ‘sharing a bed’ thing recently.

…Well. Will feels stupid.

He collects _Catch-22_ and a battered copy of _Good Omens_ ; Benji recommended it, and something written by Neil Gaiman must be good. Then he slinks over to the poetry section and pulls out a pretty nice hardbound collection of Frost for Ethan.

“Is that for me?” Will jerks a little but doesn’t jump, hairs all along the nape of his neck and the skin of his forearms standing on end.

“God, Ethan, don’t do that.”

“You need to pay better attention to your surroundings,” Ethan says.

“I was paying plenty of attention,” Will says. “You’re just—you.”

“You compliment me so articulately,” Ethan drawls. “So. Is that book for me?”

“Yes, you impatient— _child_. It’s for you, even though you’re being a jackass.”

“Thank you,” Ethan says. His face is grave; his eyes dance, mirthful and sincere.

“Yeah, yeah,” Will mutters. “Whatever, Hunt.”

Ethan, because he is a sneaky sneaking sneak, somehow manages to both pay for and slip a copy of illustrated Grimm’s Fairy Tales into Will’s bag. Will doesn’t notice until they get back to their hotel room and he’s unpacking. _The One Who Learned What Shivering Meant_ is dog-eared.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” he says, turning just enough for Ethan to see his raised eyebrow.

“If we’re exchanging gift implications, I think yours trumps mine. _You ask with eyes more than the lips / for a shelter in the night._ ”

“Okay, wow,” Will says, feeling a flush crawl up the back of his neck to stain his ears red. “I can’t believe I missed you doing… that, for the last two days.”

“Willful blindness,” Ethan says briskly, “is not an encouraged trait in field agents.” Will clenches his jaw; Ethan notices. 

“You’re fine,” he says, voice suddenly gentle. “Personal lives are separate from the job.”

“I was a field agent before I met you,” Will says. Then he sighs. Ethan didn’t mean anything malicious with that comment; he’s lived so long with the job that he doesn’t know how to cope without it. Will, too, has spent over a decade with the IMF and already can’t imagine a normal civilian life. Ethan, who already tried and failed (Will stifles an instinctive flinching twitch of his fingers), must have given up on it entirely. “No, sorry. I should have noticed.”

Ethan shrugs. “It wasn’t in my file,” he says. “I wasn’t usually sent in for seduction jobs, so they never noted any preferences. And with Julia—“ Will stops another finger twitch “—you had no reason to believe anything different.”

“Speaking of Julia…” 

“Later,” Ethan says firmly. “After dinner.” The set of his mouth softens, curving up into something not quite a smile. “Let me at least take you out on a date before I tell you about my past lovers.”

“Ah,” Will says. “Um. Okay.”

Then he retreats to the bathroom to freak out in peace.

 

“So,” Will ventures as he stabs carefully at the pasta on his plate. “Why me?”

Ethan sips at his wine, grey eyes steady over the rim of the glass. “Why anybody?” he shrugs. “You’re smart, dedicated, good-looking…”

“You’re _married_.”

“We agreed to let each other go, in the end.” Ethan shrugs. “I wanted her to be happy. She wanted the same for me. I just haven’t really had the time or interest to find… someone to share my life with.”


	7. Hannibal - Will falls in love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [A kinkmeme prompt](http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1375.html?thread=87903#cmt87903) that I (sadly) never finished.
> 
> "A side effect of Will's empathy is he falls in love (or something like love) very easily because he's overwhelmed (overcome?) by everything about a person. It'd also be interesting if Will was still a virgin, because he gets so overwhelmed he doesn't want to lose himself. But any way is fine."

He falls in love easily, quickly, and completely. He falls in love with summer days, the clear bright skies and wind-tossed grass; with the sea, endless and uncaring and cruel. He falls in love with the sound of thunderstorms and rain on the city streets, with the barista that smiles flirtatiously him when she hands him his receipt, with Mrs. Bussby his third grade teacher.

He falls in love with Jenny in high school, and Mark in college He falls in love with Alana Bloom when she holds out her hand to shake and says, sincerely, “I hope we can be friends, Will.” 

He falls a little bit in love with every killer he profiles, because for a couple of short moments he _is_ them. For a little while he loves the feeling of warm blood on his hands, loves girls with wind-chafed skin and smiling eyes, loves the way flesh parts easily under a scalpel.

He learns to love toilets and sinks and the smell of urinal cake too, because he spends lots of time in bathrooms throwing up.

 

Will doesn’t pay much attention to Hannibal when they first meet. The other man is psychoanalyzing him, which puts him on par with just about every other person Will’s ever encountered; Will just wants to get _away_ as fast as possible. Later, when he makes Will laugh over breakfast, Hannibal’s precise way of speaking and eccentric suit patterns worm their way into Will’s positive associations.

From then on it’s inevitable.

 

“You’re supposed to be my paddle,” Will says – half accusation, half plea. He can feel the strain in the muscles of his face as he tries to keep his expression calm, fingers twitching in agitation.

“I am,” Hannibal says.

Will falls.

 

“You find it so easy to immerse yourself in another’s psyche, don’t you, Will?”

Will breathes deeply. He has broken his own rule about eye contact, not for the first time with Hannibal, and now gazes into the other man’s reddish brown irises, his slightly dilated pupils. “Yes,” he says, the word coming out as a shaky whisper.

Hannibal leans forward. They are within arm’s reach now. It would be easy for Hannibal to put his hand on Will’s knee.

“You need a way to remember yourself. To find your way back from the dark places.”

Will feels trapped, pinned like a bug on a card, like those girls mounted on stag antlers. He jerks his head in a stilted nod. “Yes.”

The skin at the corners of Hannibal’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Dear Will,” he says, proprietary and coaxing, “I can help you. I can be what you need.”

Will closes his eyes, chin lifting to bare his neck.

_“Please.”_

 

Others notice – and worry – about Will’s increasing reliance on Hannibal.

“I’m backing you because you agree with my decisions,” Jack says. “But I also need Will functional. Tell me if he reaches the edge—or falls over it.”

“You push him,” Alana says. “You push him constantly. He’s dealing with a lot, and you just keep piling on more. Do you _want_ him to break, Hannibal?”

“Will is a resilient man,” Hannibal says, in two different ways on two separate occasions. “He has to be, to do what he does. I think you underestimate just how far he can go.”

“I really don’t,” Jack says flatly. “Which is why I’m concerned.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Alana says.

 

Hannibal takes to giving Will food, first in elegantly arranged Tupperware containers, then by inviting Will over for dinner. Soon Will is welcoming Hannibal into his home, his kitchen, because he has already bared his mind to the man; what is a more physical intimacy compared to that?

By the way Hannibal settles easily into Will’s space, carving out a niche for himself among the empty silences and the dogs, he understands as well.

 

“I think I saw some dog hair on Dr. Lector’s pants,” Beverly tells Zeller as they go over a body for fibers.

“So?”

“So guess who else regularly has dog hair on their clothing?”

“Oh, let me try,” Price volunteers from across the lab. He’s working on the computer. “Is it our resident whiz kid?”

“I’m pretty sure Will is at least thirty-five. Okay, thirty.”

“What, I’m not the resident whiz kid?” Zeller makes a face. “I’m hurt, you guys.”

“The only reason we keep you around is for your mediocre good looks,” Price says.

“Yeah,” Beverly agrees. “We all know I’m the prettiest. And the best crime scene investigator in the room.”

“If all you’re going to do is insult me, I don’t want to hear whatever you have to say about Lector.”

“He’s totally hitting it,” Beverly says.

“Christ.” Price nearly chokes on his coffee. He exchanges freaked out looks with Zeller. “Not that I’m arguing, but it’s totally possible that when he, you know, picked Will up from his house there was a dog present. I mean, that’s not much of a stretch.”

Beverly snorts. “Have you seen the way Lector looks at him? I bet during their _therapy,_ ” they can hear the air quotes, “he bends Will over his desk and—“

“Wow, okay!” Zeller says loudly. “Images I don’t need in my brain, thanks!”

Price chugs his coffee as if it can exorcise the last minute or so from his mind.

“Come on, you know I’m—oh _yeah._ I got you now.” She turns and grabs tweezers and a sample container, forgetting about Hannibal’s pants and his relationship with Will. “And where did you come from, fiber?”

Price and Zeller look at each other. Thank god.


	8. Dominion - Michael raised Alex

**i.**

“Hey, Lannon.”

This isn’t the first time someone has sneered his name, hostile before they’ve ever met. Alex is favored by Michael and plenty of people are jealous.

“Yeah?”

“Debrief in the Stratosphere. The Archangel wants an update.”

Alex nods. “Thanks, Matthews.”

The soldier – a Tan, unusual because they’re normally stationed at the Wall – grunts. Alex tries not to grin.

 _Finally_.

 

Alex meets Michael when he’s twelve, in a dirty back alley near the old Wilson baseball stadium. Vega’s been going through a brutal heat wave, enough that electricity is on the fritz; half the streetlights are off and the other half are dimmed, each with a buzz and flicker that bring the shadows to wavering life.

As a V-1 being caught out after curfew is pretty much a jail sentence. But Alex has been sneaking out of his assigned care facility since the moment he got stuck there: at first in the hopes of finding his father, later for the rebellion and time alone, nobody telling him what to do or how to be. Sometimes he dumpster dives or finds little trinkets that people have lost and takes them back to hide under his mattress.

That night he’s just out to be out, exploring the different world Vega is at night – quiet except for the security patrols and the stray cats, the broken men and women huddled up under piles of old clothes and plastic bags, the soft whine of security cameras moving in their relentless, endless pivots. He’s careful, because he still remembers the eight-ball attack that happened when he was seven; how three of the angels swarmed their car and broke the passenger side door, showering Alex with glass; how his dad sprained his wrist and broke his nose hitting the steering wheel when they braked hard to throw them off. He remembers the smell of gunpowder and blood.

He remembers his dad yelling for Alex to _don’t look, close your eyes--_

Alex blinks.

Vega is supposed to be safe, though, so Alex isn’t as careful as he should be -- as he _could_ be. He doesn’t notice the extra deep shadow in the corner of a doorway until it’s too late.

When a hand clamps tight around his wrist, Alex bites back a yell. A hard jerk to his arm pulls him off balance, and as he stumbles he sees his attacker: a middle aged man, probably another V-1, with gaunt cheeks and fever-bright eyes over a bearded chin. For a hysterical half-second Alex thinks: _Dad?_

But that’s stupid. And Alex will be stupid and dead, probably, if he doesn’t get away, so he snarls and claws at the man’s boney wrist, twists his body and heaves himself backwards. He frees himself but falls onto the asphalt, scraping up his elbow.

That’s when the angel comes.

It’s Michael, of course, but Alex didn’t know that back then. He sees the impression of wings against the moonlit cloud cover, long pinions sweeping behind a coat flared out like a tail. There’s a steady _thwoom, thwoom_ of displaced air as the wings churn and the angel gets closer.

Alex is too scared to scream.

The man – Alex never did figure out who he was – swears, and manages to say “What the—“ before Michael lands. Alex almost expects the earth to buckle beneath his feet like when Superman falls to earth, but the only noise is from the trench coat snapping and settling, the rustle of feathers.

“Quiet,” Michael says. Alex cringes back. Maybe if the angel is occupied with the man, he can sneak away—

“The boy is under my protection.”

Alex freezes again.

When the man is gone, Michael turns. His extends a hand.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says.

Alex forces himself out of trembling stillness. Raises his eyes to Michael’s face. Reaches up—

 

All in all, it’s probably one of the best nights of Alex’s life.

 

Michael’s roost is empty when Alex walks in, nodding to the guard by the door. They’re really more of a formality, since Michael can take care of anything humans would be useful against with a swat of his wings, but the human leaders of the city like to pretend that they have some say in what Michael does. It’s a prestigious post. Soldiers in the Corps work hard for the honor.

Alex is an exception.

He has fond memories for the Tower guards, though, so sometimes he’ll leave water or snacks out for them on the night shift. They did the same for him when he was a kid, he’s just passing it along. 

He takes off his shoes at the threshold. Michael has soft rugs laid out over the floor, richly plush and colored, and they pick up dirt easily. Better to just go in socks or barefoot, to sink toes into the dense fibers and feel them shift under his weight.

The bed is starting to look inviting by the time Michael arrives via the deck windows. He looks perfectly put together as usual, not windswept or red-cheeked from the cold. Alex knows that if he reached out to touch, Michael’s skin would be warm.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” Michael motions toward the bed, the only real piece of furniture in the room. Alex sits cross legged at the foot of the mattress, leaning back on his hands. Michael stays standing.

“You need another training session,” he says after a moment, and Alex flops back and groans.

“I thought you said I was ready.” Alex isn’t whining. He isn’t.

“For any angel lower than a Power,” Michael agrees. “But we know that Gabriel has suborned some of the higher castes.”

Alex licks his lips and presses the back of his head against the bed.

“It’s the red one, isn’t it.”

 _”Furiad,”_ Michael says with just the slightest hint of censure, “does seem particularly interested in you, yes. You aren’t prepared to face him yet.”

Alex wants to argue, but the last time Furiad (and he does know angels’ names, but why bother remembering when he’s going to kill them later anyway?) raided Alex had been next-to-useless. Bullets pinged off his armor like so much rain, and it was impossible to get close to those stupid razor wingtips. What sort of angel even needed bladed pinions? Michael could turn his wings into a whirlwind of death with a thought, each individual feather a jagged-edged knife. 

Knives, Alex learned early on, could be airfoils too.

“Fine,” he concedes with bad grace. “Training. Tell me we can do something fun afterwards, _please_.”

Michael’s face is suddenly looming over his, a crease between his eyebrows. His serious look is kind of ruined by the fact that he’s upside-down though, and Alex tries – really tries – not to stare at Michael’s mouth, which is set in its perpetually grim pout, or up Michael’s nose.

“Battle should not be fun,” he says, like Alex is six and needs to be told that _stealing is bad_.

“I didn’t mean that,” Alex lies. He _had_ wanted to go eight-ball hunting. “I was thinking… a flight. Some food. We could go to the lake?”

“Hm.” Michael’s eyebrows draw in tighter, but he nods. “Bring what you like. Tomorrow, meet me at the east gate.”

“’kay.” Alex closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to back to the barracks, where he’ll have to wear a turtleneck and sweatpants to bed, where he’ll have to explain to everyone that Michael called him because he wanted to follow up on that thing that happened two days ago with the false angel sighting.

“Can I stay?”

Michael is quiet for a moment. Alex thinks he feels something touch his hair.

“I’ll wake you before sunrise,” he murmurs.

Alex opens his eyes. Catches a glimpse of skin as Michael sheds his coat. That reminds him – here, where no one will enter without Michael’s express permission, Alex is free to take off his layers. He sits up strips down to boxers, folding his clothes and leaving them in a pile by the bed.

“Thanks,” he finally remembers to say when he’s under the covers. 

Michael, standing by the windows looking out over Vega, doesn’t respond.

 

True to his word, Michael shakes Alex awake before dawn the next morning.

“We leave in an hour,” he says to Alex’s bleary eyes and pillow-creased face. “You can take a shower here. Remember your gear.”

“Yes, Michael,” Alex yawns, rolling off the bed as Michael sweeps out of the room.

Michael’s shower is _enormous_. Alex turns the water on cold to wake himself up, yelping when it hits his skin. Forty minutes to get his gear and meet Michael at the gate.

 

Training goes as well as it ever does, which means that Michael kicks Alex’s ass and then points out everything he could have done better in an infuriatingly even tone of voice. Time spent in the car is used to quiz Alex on current politics and angel movements. By the time they arrive at Lake Vegas Alex’s brain feels like it’s been squeezed through a tube, and his muscles aren’t much better.

They don’t try to go near the old resort. Instead Alex stops on an abandoned stretch of highway to the east of the lake and turns to look at Michael.

There really is no graceful way for an angel to carry a human being in flight. You can’t do it piggy-back, since the wings are set so close, and Alex vetoes bridal style or fireman’s carry just on principle. They’ve worked out a system where Alex wears a climbing harness that Michael can grip by the shoulder straps. Alex feels a little bit like a kitten being carried by the scruff of the neck, but it allows Michael to keep one arm free in case of attack. And Alex has his gun, of course.

The flight to the lake passes by without incident. It’s only after Alex has taken off his boots and is wading barefoot in the water, pant legs rolled up above his knees, when trouble finds them.

“Alex!” Michael barks. When Alex turns to look at him his wings are out and he’s staring at the sky, hands gripping the hilts of his daggers. 

Alex steps on some _fucking sharp_ rocks as he scrambles for the shore, but he’s got his feet shoved back into his boots and his gun out by the time the angel lands. Then he has to purse his lips in a silent whistle, because – well, because she’s drop dead gorgeous. Not for the first time he wonders if all higher angels are secretly vain.

“Sister,” Michael says. Alex raises an eyebrow. He never refers to angels in familial terms, even if they’re all technically siblings. What’s so special about this one?

“Michael.” She spreads her hands, palms up. “You’ve been hiding from me.”

“If you truly wanted to contact me, you could have,” Michael says. _“Uriel.”_

“What?” Alex yelps. 

Fuck.

Uriel spares him a cool look. “This is the Chosen one?” She sniffs. “I am not impressed.”

How—of course. His pants are still rolled up, tattooed calves bared to the air. Shit.

Michael doesn’t seem all that worried, thankfully. Maybe things will turn out okay. Maybe Uriel is on their side.

“What do you want?” Michael’s hands have drifted away from the hilts of his daggers, but his wings are held arched and ready. “And please – don’t try to feed me any of Gabriel’s drivel.”

“I want to see the words of our father.” Uriel has a prowling walk; it reminds Alex of Whele’s lion. Her eyes are sharp. “I want you to stop hoarding the Chosen One. He wasn’t made just for you, Michael.”

“Of course he wasn’t.” Michael sounds mild, but Alex knows the deliberately neutral tone he adopts when he’s irritated. “He was made for humanity. And for himself.”

 _“He_ is right here,” Alex mutters. He flinches back a little when Uriel and Michael both turn to look at him: Uriel with a kind of hostile curiosity, Michael with his usual reproving frown.

Suddenly he understands how food must feel right before a meal. _Misbehaving_ food.

He lets his gun drop and crosses his arms over his chest, jaw firm and chin up. If Michael’s creepy not-British sister wants to psych him out, he’s not going to give her the satisfaction.

“He has spirit,” Uriel says. Alex bristles. He’s not a horse.

“So.” This time she’s addressing Alex, not her brother. “Can I have a look?”

A dagger suddenly appears in her hand, and Alex jumps back. Michael stiffens.

“Or do I have to threaten?” She tosses the dagger in the air, flipping it and catching it by the hilt. It’s shaped a lot like the ones Michael carries, and is undoubtedly as sharp.

“Uriel.”

Alex shivers. He doesn’t want to take his eyes off Uriel – even though she’s out of reach, knives can always be thrown – but he glances at Michael anyway, and then he just gets… stuck. Dark wings frame a man who is clearly something more than human; Alex can almost see shadows above and below, flight feathers spread in double-ranks of three. There are eyes, too. Thousands, watching. Watching him.

And then Michael shifts, or the way angle of the sun changes, or the wind stirs his coat, and he’s just _Michael_ again, the angel who raised Alex from the tunnels of Vega into a tower that brushes the sky, who believes – truly believes – that Alex is special.

Neither of the angels seems to notice Alex’s zone-out. By the time he tunes back into the conversation, Uriel is threatening to fly into the city and bother Michael until Alex shows her the tattoos.

“Okay,” Alex says loudly. Michael and Uriel cock their heads at the same angle when they face him, and Alex purses his lips to keep his expression stern. “How about Uriel swears she’s not working for Gabriel, and I’ll show her the damn tattoos.”

Uriel looks a little bit like she swallowed a bee. Michael smirks, which for him is practically an ecstasy of gloating.

“You word,” he says, and Uriel shoots him a glare that could set his coat on fire. Obviously Alex is missing something.

“Very well.” Her nostrils flare. “My word that I am not sworn to Gabriel.”

“And that you will not convey anything you learn here today to him.”

Alex prepares to throw himself between them – Uriel _probably_ won’t stab him if she wants to see the tattoos so damn bad – but eventually she swears through gritted teeth that she won’t betray them.

At Michael’s nod, Alex sighs. He can feel Uriel’s eyes on him as he unbuckles his vest and strips off his shirt, making his skin prickle. When a cool finger ghosts over his shoulder blade, he jerks away with a yelp.

“Hey!”

In the next instant Michael is beside him, hand clenched around Uriel’s wrist.

“Stop,” he growls, “testing my patience, sister.”

Uriel laughs, low and throaty. “Fine,” she says, lips curled. “I’ll not touch. Even if he is _very_ pretty.”

“Awkward,” Alex sings under his breath. “So awkward.”

Michael looks at him. “Try living with her for a couple of centuries.”

“Just for that,” Uriel says, “I think I would like to see _all_ of the tattoos, please. Not just the ones on his chest.”

 _”Um,”_ Alex says.

 

Thankfully, Michael talks Uriel out of making Alex take off his pants. Alex doesn’t think he could deal with being naked and examined by two archangels.

“…So,” Alex says after she wings off into the unknown. “That was strange.”

“Hm.” Michael is doing his ‘stare mysteriously off into the distance’ thing. Alex hates it when he does that.

“What?”

“The timing,” Michael answers after a moment. “It’s concerning that she chose to reveal herself now, when Gabriel’s forces are becoming bolder.”

“You’re worried she came to scout us out?” Alex guesses. “But she swore that she wasn’t working for Gabriel, right? What was with that, anyway?”

“She said that she wasn’t currently in his service,” Michael says, ignoring Alex’s last question. “That doesn’t mean she cannot be working with him. Or, if not with him, then still against us.”

Alex runs that through his head a few times. “So basically, we can’t trust her.”

“We can trust her absolutely,” Michael corrects him. “So long as she gives her word. She hasn’t.”

“Yeah,” Alex shrugs. “Still not getting it.”

“Uriel’s word is absolute,” Michael says shortly. “It binds her – it’s in her nature.”

“Huh.” Alex studies Michael for a moment. “Do you have a thing like that?”

Michael doesn’t answer.

ii.

“Where have _you_ been?” Noma greets him with a slap to the ass, which never fails to make Alex jump. She laughs as Alex makes a face.

“Assignment from Michael,” he says.

“Which you can’t talk about, right?” Ethan ambles up to them, fingers hooked into the gaps at the front of his vest.

“Right,” Alex agrees. They nod, dropping the subject – everyone respects the Archangel.

“So, Mack,” Noma says, obviously continuing an ongoing conversation. “You going to acquire me some quality lipstick or what?”

“Only if you tell me who the mystery lover is,” Ethan grins. “If I’m going to swipe a Tom Ford, I deserve it.”

“I can’t just decide I want to look awesome?” Noma cocks a hip even as she raises her fist. “Your answer better be the right one.”

“Whoah,” Ethan holds his hands up. “Of course you can. I just wanted to see if he was cute.”

“Now she’s never going to let you meet him,” Alex says, not quite under his breath. “Considering last time.”

“It was an _accident_ ,” Ethan protests. Noma’s eyes narrow.

“I thought we agreed not to bring that up.”

“Really?” Alex employs the innocent puppy eyes. “I must’ve forgot.”

Noma’s hand darts forward; Alex flinches too late to dodge the whap to the back of his head.

“Must be all those concussions you get,” she says.

“All right, all right.” Ethan slings his arms around both their shoulders, squeezing them in on either side. “Let’s get along, kids. It’s going to be a long night patrol.”

Alex leans into the contact. It’s nice.

 

It _is_ a long night patrol. Alex is exhausted by the end of it, low energy levels exacerbated by how early he had gotten up that morning. Noma and Ethan hold sporadic, hushed conversations when they’re in relatively safe areas while Alex blinks a lot and keeps moving to stay awake.

“Hey.” Noma grasps his arm when they get back to the barracks, pulling him aside. “We need to talk.”

Alex frowns at her. “About what?”

“About the Acolytes. There have been rumors that they’ve smuggled a higher angel into the city.”

“What?” Alex is suddenly wide awake. “And nobody’s reported it to Michael?”

“Rumors,” Noma repeats. 

“Yean, but—” he cuts himself off at Noma’s look. “Okay, I’ll tell him when I report in. Let me know if you hear anything else?”

“Obviously.” She turns away. “Get some sleep, your brain is definitely not at peak capacity.”

Alex considers calling her back, but she’s right: he’s too tired to think straight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the extent of my notes for this are:  
> • Noma is a higher angel who knows who Alex is  
> • Gabriel takes her over??  
> • Does Alex know Noma is an angel?? (yes?)
> 
> WHICH LIKE. I WROTE THIS TWO YEARS AGO, I DON'T REMEMBER A THING ABOUT WHERE I WAS GOING WITH THIS. sigh.


	9. Numb3rs - academic revolution!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had the idea for this after watching _Waste Not_. Unfortunately I'm a binge watcher, and the next couple of episodes made me like Millie a lot, so this will probably never be finished.

“Okay, what the hell is going on?” Don says. This is the fifth time in the past two weeks that he’s walked in on Charlie and Larry huddled secretively together in the garage, which normally wouldn’t be anything to comment on, but normally they don’t try to cover their work up with large pieces paper. Don squints a little. Yeah, some of Dad’s old city planning stuff. Definitely not supergravity-cosmological-whatsit related, which is what they would be hovering over if these little meetings were legitimate.

“Nothing!” Charlie says, practically bleeding guilt all over the floor. His eyes are wide and his brows pushed together – he’s such an unpredictably bad liar that Don feels a swell of affection rise in his chest.

“Yeah?” Don crosses his arms, mouth ticked up at the corners. “You normally hide nothing under an upside-down blueprint?”

“That’s not—Oh.”

“Yeah,” Don says again, and this time he smiles. “Come on, geniuses, tell me what’s up.”

“Charles,” Larry says, considering. “I believe that incorporating Don in our plans represents a unique opportunity.”

“Woah,” Don blinks and raises his hands before Charlie can reply. “I’m not going to do anything until you tell me what it is you’re planning.”

“Well,” Larry says before Charlie jumps in.

“We’re fomenting a revolution,” he says, and Don knows, Don can see: he is one hundred percent, all-in, absolutely drop dead serious.

 

After the incredulous questions _(“What? No, really, what?”)_ and the babbled explanations _(“Well actually it’s not so much a revolution as it is an applied model of unpredictable—“ “Okay, please stop.”)_ and the denial _(“No, okay? No. I’m not gonna—Why are you even—”)_ they troop inside and retrieve beers from the fridge. Don listens to their long list of grievances, gets steadily more drunk, and finally, when his guard is down and Charlie breaks out the goddamn puppy eyes, he caves.

Which is how he ends up here.

“Look,” he says, a little desperately, to Amita. “I honestly have no idea how this happened.”

“Oh, I know,” Amita says, not taking her eyes off the three-way yelling match taking place in the dining room. “I’m not even sure who I should be rooting for.”

“I thought you didn’t like, uh.”

“Professor Finch,” Amita supplies. Don nods. He only knew the woman as Mildred.

“Professor Finch,” he agrees. “Charlie said something about patronization?”

“Yes,” Amita says, and turns to look at him. “But… look, I’m going to be frank with you. A woman in academia, especially in math, doesn’t have it easy. And Millie offered me a tenure track contract and research opportunities in _writing_ – do you know how hard that is to get, if you’re an Indian woman just out of grad school?”

Probably about as hard as it would be for a black woman to make it through Quantico and then end up on the fast-track for team leadership, Don thinks. “No,” he says. “But I can imagine.”

“Then you understand,” she says, and in that moment Don can really see what Charlie keeps throwing himself at. Amita has a fire in her, a passion that lights up her eyes and her face, something that goes deeper than a love for math. Something you could burn yourself on.

“Yeah,” Don says. “I guess I do.”

That’s when the electricity goes out.

 

“There,” Professor Mildred Finch, female of middle-eastern descent, West-coast accent, approximate age range late forties to early fifties, Chair of CalSci Math/Astronomy/Physics department, taps the side of her new lit candle. “Now if we could all be so agreeable—“

“Agreeable?” Charlie says. He’s in full genius tantrum mode, a state that Don recognizes from years of stolen toys and shoving fights and a thousand other cruel things adolescent brothers can inflict upon each other. “I think you mean ‘railroaded.’ Or is your inability to comprehend other points of view actually—“

“Charlie!” Alan snaps.

“Okay, okay.” If Don doesn’t step in, this is going to turn into a verbal bloodbath. “Let’s all take a step back here, finish lighting these candles. All right?”


End file.
